


No Love That's Guiding Me

by AwayLaughing



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Caligula Era, Hand Jobs, Historical, Hurt/Comfort, Kink Meme, M/M, Madness, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-23
Updated: 2011-02-23
Packaged: 2017-10-15 21:22:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/165060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwayLaughing/pseuds/AwayLaughing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During Caligula's reign Germania watches Rome slip into madness and decides that maybe he does want to help the other, at least a little. Idea credited to OP of the prompt, work is my own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Love That's Guiding Me

It wasn't, Germania knew, the slightly crazed look in Rome's dark eyes which had caused Hellas to panic enough to ask him for help, nor was it the bouts of uncontrolled rage which left the proud Gallia with a bruised face which had convinced him something was wrong. It was the shaking.

 

Tiny, minute trembles in his hands which made him fumble with armour straps and writing tools alike, and made something uncomfortable curl in Germania's gut, not sadness or pity or even anger, and never true worry, but a feeling nonetheless. So, he'd agreed to Hellas' proposal, tampering down his distaste for her decadence and hedonism and bald lies and the desire to refuse just to spite her, to remind her she was far more subjugated than he.

 

The first step had been to take the empire from his gods forsaken capital, away from the stench and impoverishment and insanity, and into the deep forests north of the mountains. They don't speak much, not through the journey, but Germania notices the way the tension of his shoulders relax ever so slightly, not completely, the farther they get from Rome proper.

 

In the mountains Rome finally becomes a bit more talkative, and Germania would be annoyed by the prattle if his aims were not to actually revive the habit. “Sometimes I cannot feel you,” Rome tells him one night as they settle in one of the passes Rome knows well. Germania be helping him, but he will not reveal ways through the Alpes. “Sometimes I can feel nothing past these mountains.” His face is blank, pensive, and Germania feels uncomfortable, not sure how to respond. “Do you feel me?”

 

Germania looks out at the cool water of the lake they've settled near, his normally loose blond hair tucked into a plait to avoid tangles from the cold winds higher in the mountain passes. “You are like a bruise,” he says finally, “just bothersome enough that I cannot forget.”

 

Rome smiles at that, not entirely humourless, brown eyes flickering toward the sky, then to Germania. “Good,” he says softly, “you are more like a splinter. I am unable to notice it until I bump it or it becomes infected and then,” he looks back up to the sky, “when Hellas is drunk she babbles for hours about the stars.”

 

Germania doesn't respond, used to Rome's shift in attention and even managed to bite back the question of when isn't the Athenian drunk. They sit in almost silence, Rome muttering Greek names under his breath as he traces patterns in the stars. Eventually the sun rises, and Germania thinks he must have slept at one point or another. Rome misses the sun rise, and Germania takes the opportunity to indulge in the one habit he's not too ashamed of picking up from Rome and the Greeks; bathing.

 

The water is cold, fed by the mountains of ice which dot the Alpes, and Germania moves quickly. Rome is awake when he returns to the hill they'd camped on and the empire watches him like a hawk. “Let me braid your hair,” he says, voice authoritative and Germania agrees.

 

Rome's hands are still shaking, and so braiding Germania's hair takes longer than usual, but Germania says nothing, nodding in thanks when he finally feels the heavy plait thumps against his back. Rome grins back at him before heading down to bath himself.

 

They travel all day, making their way completely down from the mountain by mid afternoon, and just before dusk they hit a flat field. All the warning Germania gets is a sly look before Rome is galloping down the vast green expanse. Germania sighs and follows slowly from behind, watching as the empire grew farther and farther, and suddenly tumbled from his horse.

 

Swearing the blond lightly kicked his horse, prompting it into a gallop. He's almost half disappointed when he finds Rome, not laying in a mud puddle with one of Gallia's arrows in his neck, but sitting in a cluster of flowers, giggling to himself madly. “Get up,” he says with annoyance, hiding his shock and how disturbing he finds the scene.

 

“No,” Rome's voice is smooth, despite his hysterics. “You come down here.” When Germania makes no move to do as he is told Rome sighs dramatically, fopping back, arms out and Germania is reminded ludicrously of the images the Christians paint and create of their one God. “Come down here and tell me you hate me.”

 

“Rome,” Germania can't keep the sigh out of his voice, “was there ever any doubt?”

 

“No,” Rome agrees, still some strange parody of a crucifixion victim, “I've never doubted your fidelity. But you still have to come down here and say it.”

 

Germania is about to refuse again when he's pushed forward, and a slight turn reveals his horse, brown eyes reproachful, as if to say, _ust get it over with, rain is coming_. Sighing again he sits next to Rome, face serious, “I have never hated anyone as much as I hate you,” he assures the other, “and I doubt I can.”

 

“Good,” Rome says, “good,” and the next thing Germania knows he's on his back. “You were supposed to lay down, so you weren't taller than me.”

 

“I'm always taller than you,” he considers his next move, “so is Gaul, and that island to the north.”

 

“I know,” Rome seems almost like his normal self, except that the madness Germania sees in his eyes isn't the ferity of a wolf trapped in a civil mask, but of something broken. “I briefly considered cutting off your legs at the knees one night when I was very drunk,” he shook his head, “changed my mind though.”

 

“I must say I am thankful for that moment of clarity,” Germania tells him dryly, “get up, it will rain soon.”

 

“You're welcome,” Rome ignores his request, leaning down, lips brushing Germania's, “say it again.”

 

“It's going to rain.”

 

Rome punches him, laughing lightly before actually kissing him, more teeth than lips or tongue. “Say it.”

 

“I hate you,” Germania tells him, only able to release his mouth by biting the Empire rather savagely.

 

“I hope you'll still feel that way when I kill Gallia,” he says it so nonchalantly, “I'm going to tear her into pieces.” Germania isn't sure whether or not to believe him so he lets him continue. “I dream of it. I dream of her coming apart like a bad tapestry,” his mouth is back on Germania's though he keeps speaking. “I dream of Hellas drowning, her hair lank and wet,” he bites Germania's ear before whispering, voice desperate with something, “I dream of Mors.”

 

Something, probably pity, surges in Germania and pushes Rome away so their both sitting. “You are not dying,” he tells Rome, “my fortune is not so good.”

 

Rome laughs at that, head back, roaring and Germania's horse gives and irritated huff; the rain is still coming. Rome's laughter dies out, like a man giving his last bubbling breath. “Maybe it is though,” he looks at the sky, scratching at his arm, as if his skin fits wrong, “so black.” After only a moment's hesitation Germania tugs the empire to him, so the broad back is against his broader chest.

 

“This is no battlefield,” Germania tells him softly, hand kneading Rome's stomach, “so we will have to give Freo something else to occupy her time with.” Rome is in his usual tunic paired with cotton feminalia and Germania can feel the heat straining through the tight leg coverings. “She's a very passionate woman,” he tells Rome, even as his hand undoes the ties.

 

Rome opens his mouth, perhaps to remind Germania that his gods are not welcome in Roman lands, but he ends up with his head on Germania's shoulder, a stifled gasp his only attempt at communication. “You'd probably get along well,” Germania feels inane, discussing his goddess with Rome while sitting in a field providing sexual favours in an attempt to get the man under tree coverage before the rain fell. “Both stubborn,” he twists slightly at the end of Rome's penis, damp breath hitting his neck, “both very unscrupulous.”

 

“I am no-ahh,” Germania smirks, glad for even the small victory. “You seem very tense,” Germania notes blithely, “Hellas has been busy has she?”

 

“You-you,” Rome's scrambling for words, and Germania can hear enough of the desperation in his voice that he places an open mouthed kiss on the other's lips, despite the strange angle.

 

“Shh Rome,” his voice is softer than expected it he could make it for Rome, “it's fine, you'll be fine.” Rome lets out a noise, half moan half growl and Germania can feel the tensing of his back muscles, “come now,” Germania's actually coaxing the other, “we mustn't keep Freo waiting.”

 

A final slide of his hand on Rome's penis is enough to do the trick, Rome's back arching as he turns his head to sink his teeth into Germania's neck, and Germania can feel his cry through his muscles and bones, “Þeudhar!”

 

Germania ignores the use of his name, one only his people and those he considers family are permitted to use, wiping his hand on the grass, wincing when a rain drop hits his forehead. In a matter of seconds it's a downpour.

 

“Germania,” Rome is still seemingly boneless against Germania, his minute shaking gone, “you should have told me it was going to rain.”

 

Germania punches him, leaving the laughing, brown haired man sprawled in a rapidly growing mud puddle and tries not to smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Femanilia are knee high tight breeches worn by the Gauls and adopted by the Romans when they went north.
> 
> Þeudhar is pronounced (I think) somewhat like "Theoodar" but I'm not positive. I gave him that name because it means "warrior of the people" in old German.
> 
> The Gallia at this time is Gallia Comata, it IS in fact broken apart into three different provinces, head canon says that's how France is born.
> 
> Title comes from here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=exHJaKxOt9w


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